


merit badges

by verity



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Home Renovation, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Pack Feels, Rope Bondage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-22
Updated: 2013-01-22
Packaged: 2017-11-26 11:29:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/650057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verity/pseuds/verity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You tied him up with… clothesline?" Derek says.</p><p>The witch is on the ground behind the house, interrupted in drawing… whatever he'd been drawing in the dirt. Stiles has him hogtied but upright, weight unsteadily distributed from his spread knees to his ankles bound close together. </p><p>"I mean, I clocked him with a 2x4 first," Stiles says. "But then I tied him up. Always prepared, that's me."</p>
            </blockquote>





	merit badges

Derek runs into Stiles in the middle of the rope aisle in Home Depot. Well, that's not true—Derek smelled Stiles on the other side of the store, looking at paint chips with Isaac, and came over to—he doesn't know. Up close, Stiles smells tired, aroused. He's hesitating over some precut cotton clothesline, fingers running over the plastic wrap. There's a few things already in his basket, screws, a gasket. An errand for the Sheriff, probably.

"Stiles," he says, and Stiles jumps, pulling his hand back. "Looking for something?"

"I've decided to invest in rappelling supplies," Stiles says. "Regular boy scout here."

"Wouldn't recommend that for rappelling," Derek says. His shoulder brushes Stiles's as he passes by.

Back in the paint section, Isaac's decided on a pale yellow for the living room walls and white trim. It doesn't matter to Derek, but he looks carefully at the colors anyway. They buy paint, primer, rollers, brushes, trays, tarps and tape. There's enough money in his and Laura's joint savings account to take care of most of this; if he cashes out some of their stocks, he probably won't have to cut into the principal, what they inherited beyond the insurance payout from the fire. Isaac can buy whatever he wants.

—

Stiles is a teenage boy, so he stinks of arousal on a regular basis and, less frequently, satisfaction. There are some constants: Lydia Martin, Jackson's friend Danny, porn in the open tabs on his laptop which Derek chooses to ignore. He rarely smells turned on when he and Derek are alone together. Stiles is defiant, fearful, amused, jubilant, focused by turns, but he's not… distracted.

Derek tries not to be distracted. Sometimes he's more successful than others.

—

Erica wants makeup for her birthday. Charcoal eyeliner, vivid lipstick, smoky eyeshadow. Laura taught Derek to do her makeup when he was in middle school; even with supernatural reflexes, his hands were steadier than her own. He showed Erica, after the bite, when he found her in the bathroom of his apartment, fumbling with cheap shit from Walgreens. Now she's gotten picky, swatching Nars and Urban Decay and Lime Crime on the back of her hand while Derek follows her around Sephora, trying not to hover.

"You'd look good with some eyeliner." Erica smiles up at him. "Ever tried this stuff on?"

Derek shrugs. "Laura used to put it on me, when I was little. There—there were pictures."

"Bet you're glad those burned," she says.

He's not, but he says, "Sure."

Erica's lips are a dark slash across her mouth, like blood that's dried after the hunt. She looks steadier when she's made up like this, but she wouldn't be any less a predator with her mouth naked; lipstick didn't keep her safe from being prey.

—

"You tied him up with… clothesline?" Derek says.

The witch is on the ground behind the house, interrupted in drawing… whatever he'd been drawing in the dirt. Stiles has him hogtied but upright, weight unsteadily distributed from his spread knees to his ankles bound close together. The pull on the witch's wrists has his shoulders straining. He's sweating, blinking it away from his eyes.

"I mean, I clocked him with a 2x4 first," Stiles says. "But then I tied him up. Always prepared, that's me."

"So you've just been carrying this around in your car?"

"Hey, come on, focus," Scott says, eyes darting between them. "What are we supposed to do with this guy? I don't think he's with the hunters."

The witch scowls, teeth clenching around the spittle-damp rag in his mouth. Inconclusive.

"And it seemed like a good idea to gag him?" Derek says.

Stiles crosses his arms. "He can't cast anything that way." He looks over to Scott. "I've already called Deaton. He said to put down a circle."

There's nothing for Derek and Scott to do, so they sit on the edge of the unfinished back porch and wait while Stiles traces a circle on the ground with Morton salt from the pantry. When the circle's closed, he steps back and mutters something under his breath in a language that Derek doesn't know. The salt flares violet for a moment. "That's the iodine," Stiles says. He walks around to crouch in front of the witch. "I hope you've learned a very important lesson today, dude. Don't fuck with werewolves."

"You're not a werewolf," Derek says.

"No shit," Stiles says. He smells like ozone and vindication.

—

Boyd likes cooking. He's less interested in appliances, but he follows Derek around the store, looking at refrigerators and electric ranges, taking notes. "I don't know anything about this stuff," Derek confesses ten fridges in. "Does it make a difference if they're—some color?"

"No idea," Boyd says. "We could ask my Nana."

None of his betas have come clean to their families yet. Of all of them, Boyd's the closest to his. "We could," Derek says.

Boyd's grandmother Celeste picks out a refrigerator and a stove and a dishwasher, then the countertops and cabinets, supervising their installation. The closest she comes to mentioning the furry elephant in the room is the day the sink goes in, an enameled, cast-iron behemoth that Boyd's uncle salvaged from a reno. "I hope you're taking good care of my boy," she says, leaning back against the counter. "I hear he had some trouble, a few months back, with some strangers that came to town."

Derek's mouth is dry. "They're gone now. They won't come back. I'll—he'll be safe here."

"Good." Celeste nods. "You keep up with that, then."

"Yes, ma'am," he says, lowering his eyes.

—

Stiles find a lot of uses for the clothesline, although he switches it out for nylon at one point, around the time he takes up tying knots. "I never did this in Boy Scouts," he says.

Scott swallows his mouthful of Mountain Dew. "Yeah, I don't remember that. We did, like, camping. And birds."

They're sitting on the front porch, facing the drive that leads up to the house. Derek needs to get that repaved at some point, but he'll get the house finished first. "Birds?" he says.

"There's a bird watching merit badge." Stiles squints at the knot he's working on, some kind of bowline. "And dogs, we did that. Drafting, too, and insects." He shoots a quick look over to Scott, who smiles back. 

Derek always forgets that Scott had asthma before the bite. Scott was impulsive at first, eager to harness his newfound strength, but he's calmed down in Allison's absence. They don't know whether the Argents will return to Beacon Hills. It doesn't seem likely, now that the pack is established and moving towards stable. Scott still hasn't joined Derek's pack, but he spends a lot of time at the house, usually with Stiles, sprawling over the couches in the den as if they're his own.

"There's a painting badge," Scott says. "Scuba diving. We should really get on those."

Stiles laughs. "Hey, Derek, you want to be our troop leader?"

"No," Derek says. "What—"

" _You're the Scoutmaster now_ ," Isaac intones, dropping down next to him with a six pack of Coke in hand.

"You asked for it," Scott says. He drains his can of Mountain Dew and wriggles his fingers in Isaac's direction.

Stiles glances over at Derek, fiddling with the rope in his hands. "You kind of did."

—

Derek finds Stiles in one of the unfinished rooms upstairs one day, covering the drywall with primer. "Hey, you want to do the corners?" Stiles says. "There's a brush by the can."

"Fine," Derek says, like it's him doing Stiles the favor.

They work without talking for a while. Derek focuses on the steady beat of Stiles's heart and the soft murmurs of Erica and Boyd below, hanging curtains in the living room. The room smells like paint and contentment, occasionally lightened by the breeze from the window Stiles has cracked to let out the fumes. The floor plan of the new house doesn't quite map to the old one, but part of this room used to be Derek's. None of the house feels like his anymore, or all of it; nothing in between. He sleeps in the room in the northeast corner, the one that was mostly Laura's.

When Stiles's phone chirps, he sets the roller down on the tarp, careful of the long pole, and rummages through his backpack for it. "Scott," he sighs, fingers sliding against the screen. "Really?"

There's rope spilling out of Stiles's backpack, cotton clothesline again, the ends bound off with masking tape. Derek sets the brush down on the edge of the paint tray and comes over to pick up one end. Stiles watches him, face inscrutable. Derek can't smell anything over the paint that's dripped on Stiles's jeans, been smudged in one light, forgetful line along his jaw. "Are you planning on rappelling any time soon?" he says.

Stiles tilts his head, eyes on Derek's, appraising. "Not really."

Derek runs the rope through his fingers. It's soft, a little worn. Maybe it's the same rope he saw Stiles buying that one time. It's not what Stiles used to bind the witch, though; Deaton took that away with him. "What's this for?"

"I don't know," Stiles lies, picking up the rope at one of the knots, tugging it toward him. "It comes in handy."

"I'm listening." Derek doesn't let go of his end.

Stiles looks away, cheeks flushing. "Don't you ever—just want to take a break from stuff? It's—I think about it a lot. Just, trusting somebody that much. And it takes practice, it takes a while, even if you…" He trails off.

"Is it for you?" Derek says. "Or someone else?"

Stiles bites his lip, shrugs minutely.

"You could teach me," Derek says.

"Yeah," Stiles says. "I could."

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [ladyofthelog](http://ladyofthelog.tumblr.com) on tumblr.


End file.
